“Because—because—Esmeralda”—his voice was almost a whisper, and even her innocence, enlightened by her remembrance of his delirious calling upon her name, could not but discern the meaning in his eyes and his voice—“Esmeralda,” he whispered again, “don’t be angry with me. I love you!”
She did not start to her feet, the ivory whiteness of her face remained unchanged; she turned her eyes upon him with an expression in them of half-troubled wonder.
“I love you, Esmeralda!” he said. He was on one knee by her side and had got possession of her hand. “Won’t you speak to me? Are you angry? Speak to me, Esmeralda. Tell me that I may go on loving you.”
She drew her hand from his and rose, and stood looking straight before her at the river, almost as if she were in a dream, as if the strangeness of his words had cast a spell over her.
He tried to take her hand again, but she drew back beyond his reach.
“No,” she said in so low a voice that he could just hear it; then she turned away from him. He rose from his knees to follow her, to urge his suit; but, looking over her shoulder, she shook her head as if to bid him stay where he was, and then, not swiftly, but slowly, as if she were a spirit of the moonlight, she glided away from him.
[CHAPTER V.]
Esmeralda walked slowly home in the moonlight.